


Ash in the Sun

by Lola1b



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Anders goes on his Calling, Darkspawn, Grey Wardens, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lola1b/pseuds/Lola1b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both knew this moment would come.</p>
<p>Anders goes on his Calling. Hawke goes with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ash in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.”   
> ― Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

Ash in the Sun

 

A sharp pain cut through the ringing in his ears. He took a ragged breath and felt it again, cutting at him. The swollen fingers of his left, mangled hand gingerly touched at his ribs, the right hand holding tightly to his staff. He had no mana left. Whatever lyrium they brought had been used up. His fingers tingled with the beginnings of a healing spell; but it never manifested and he dropped his hand.

Hawke thumped his head back against the wall of rock behind him. He had no mana left. He let his staff drop. There was a sword at his side. Carver had begged him to take it. _Just in case. If you survive, you come home, Garret._ A silent “please” followed those words.

It almost convinced him. See it to the end, then return.

His eyes rolled to the side, away from the mass of bloodied Darkspawn, from the corpses lining the entrance to their little camp, stashed away in a small alcove, miles underground. His eyes landed on the head of blond hair.

_The house always smelled of something unpleasant underneath all the healing herbs and fragrances. Mostly dog shit. Sometimes wyvern shit. Anders couldn't even say a word when Hawke brought Empress home, young and hurt and without any teeth or claws to bite at them with._

_Anders had more to say when two elven orphans made it past the threshold of their door, Hawke pleading with his puppy dog eyes for them to stay._

_“They love us, Anders. We can't just send them back.”_

Hawke groaned as he slowly sank to the ground beside the limp form. The little fire burned on against the odds, weakly, like the faint heartbeat beside it. Hawke held his purple fingers against his side, still trying to feel for the broken rib, his other hand reaching out carefully. His hands were filthy. His fingers left two long streaks of dirt on Anders' forehead where he tried to push the hair out of his face. Hawke rose to a knee, the other one – busted from a botched landing – hung in the air, and he reached out with his sleeve held in his fingers, trying desperately to wipe the dirt away.

His shallow, loud breathing, his hiccuping like sobbing, was the only sound he heard echoing back at him, and the silence was maddening. He'd almost take Darkspawn over this quiet.

“It's alright, sweetheart. It's alright,” he chanted, comforted in the sound of his own voice, of any voice.

_They had a garden. It was functional, growing all the herbs Anders could need for personal use. The clinic had its own supply, its own gardeners. They didn't do it for the herbs. Not here. Here it was for peace. Justice complained. When he stopped, Anders came back with a laugh._

_“I don't think we'll ever be able to explain relaxation to him, love.”_

_“Seems not,” Hawke nodded. “But then again, what exactly is relaxation in this house?” he asked, his head tilting up at the sound of shrieks coming from the stairs._

_“He's touching me!”_

_“No I'm not!”_

_“I am_ not _dealing with that right now, love.”_

_Hawke laughed and rose to his knees. His expensive pants were covered in dirt, but he didn't care. He'd kneel in gold trousers and ruin them completely, just for a chance to be in that garden, all day, every day, for the rest of their lives._

_The argument settled between the two young mages, Hawke returned to the glass doors leading to their little balcony, to their little heaven, from which they could hear all the sounds of Kirkwall but see none of it._

_Anders was holding his mouth – stifling a cry. His body bent over like in pain, his fingers pressing against his forehead. There were tears in his eyes. In the sunlight, Hawke could see the silvery strands in his blond hair. They were soft, in appearance and touch. Just a little of ash in the sun. So unlike the mess of black and white that was his own hair and beard. The children even called them old men, when they wanted to be teasing._

_Anders straightened out immediately when he saw Hawke enter. “You fixed it, love?”_

_Hawke stood a moment longer. He saw now what he didn't want to see that morning. Streaks of blue-white lines on his beloved's face. Eyes more hollow, more white. The tightness of that skin, the shallowness of those fingers, their bony structure._

_He wondered what Justice thought of it. He wondered what would happen to him. He wondered a million things._

_Hawke didn't realize he was crying until Anders droped his hands and gave him a sympathetic look._

_“We knew, love. We knew this day would come. I can feel it, Garrett. I have to go.”_

_Just a moment longer. Hawke stood and soaked up the sun._

_Just give us a moment longer, he prayed._

 

_When Carver met them near the entrance, he stood for a long time, too. He let the sun beat down on his skin, his brother watching him in anger and despair. The brother who was meant to follow them, not too far off in the future._

_The silent please. He closed his eyes. Carver pressed the sword into his hand. He couldn't watch his face. He waited a long moment before he opened them again and wrapped his arms around his little brother. He couldn't think of a thing to say. Neither could Carver. Anders said it for him. He begged Carver to make Hawke reconsider. He begged Hawke to not go. He said he could fall on that sword right now, if it stopped Hawke from going. Carver said nothing. Hawke just pressed his palm against Carver's back one more time, then let go, and turned towards the darkness ahead, reaching out for Anders to take his hand._

Strained, ragged breathing filled the cavern. It drew more attention. He could hear the Darkspawn shuffling in the dark. He looked back at Anders. He had told him if he fell, that Hawke was to go, immediately. Go back home. But Anders was still breathing. He thought of grabbing him and running for the exit, of searching for the nearest healer, of getting them out of here. But Anders came here to die. Here. Of all places. He knew it was the right thing. He argued it. He wouldn't take a knife or a gentle poison and fall asleep in his bed. He wouldn't pass on surrounded by friends and family. All these years he scorned the Wardens and fled from them. But here, at the end, he found his sense of duty again.

And Hawke hated it.

He hated the Darkspawn that likely have infected him now, too, with their foul blood. He hated the Wardens for their Joining, for their powers, for their – for everything. _He_ could kill Darkspawn just fine, and he didn't have to drink their blood. He didn't have to feel the horrible pull that was so strong on Anders, so firm on him, that he would not be persuaded.

A single Darkspawn. It entered experimentally, almost sheepishly. As if it were aware of the private moment it was intruding on. Hawke pulled out the sword, his fingers gripping the handle, the sound of the metal and cloth churning underneath his grip echoing around them. The Darkspawn came at him. He slashed its head clean off with one swing.

He's gotten good at it. But he had always been good with swords, for a mage.

He sank back down. He had no food left. There were about two days worth of water left, if only he drank it. He looked down at Anders, his hair falling into his face. It was too long. His beard was dirty and untrimmed. He looked like a mess, he was sure. He wasn't old enough for his hair to thin yet, and besides, he had always been incredibly hairy.

The children liked to make fun of him for it. In the years since the first two came, in the years that they grew, more orphans made it to their house for an hour, or two, or three. There was always laughter and happiness, and to their great joy, a time came when the two young elven mages Hawke picked up so long ago had the pleasure of having to deal with screaming toddlers who knew how to throw fireballs themselves.

They'd take good care of the clinic and the orphanage. Varric would help them. Merrill would read more to the children. Fenris might teach them to fight, when they're older. Aveline will keep them safe. Isabela will... hopefully not offer any of them a position on her ship, but she might bring them gifts from Nevarra, Rivain, Tevinter... They left them all behind. They wanted to come with, to say goodbye at the very end. But both Hawke and Anders wanted to see them home for the last time. They wanted to see them on the white steps of the Keep, with the city they've liberated – cleansed – rising behind them. That city that they both hated and loved.

Something shifted in the air. Hawke's head nodded and he whined, suddenly wide awake, aware of the tendrils of sleep that had been grabbing a hold of him just moments before. He hadn't slept in two days.

He turned his weary eyes towards the bright white light. He squinted at it, his slowed brain trying to process what was happening in front of him.

“He is gone,” boomed a strong, surreal voice.

“N-no, Justice, no,” Hawke begged, falling on his knees, pain shooting through him from his busted kneecap. “No, he's not. Please, he has to, has to live,” Hawke begged, reaching out to Justice, who sat up, stared ahead. Anders' face and body, upright and so alive, moving and thinking and debating with his eyebrows drawn tight.

Hawke's fingers curled around the fabric of Anders' sleeve. What was he thinking of?

Justice turned to him, the light in the alcove shifting, fracturing on the uneven rocks.

“Justice,” Hawke said, unsure of what to beg, of what to plead. _Don't leave, not you, too._ But how could he ask that? How could he ask him to possess Anders' corpse?

Justice relaxed the deep wrinkles in Anders' forehead. Slowly, he moved forward. Hawke's eyes fluttered for a moment, closing, as Anders' lips pressed against his sweaty forehead, against the dirty hair and grime that gathered there. It was chaste and quick, and burned in Hawke's flesh like a brand.

The light faded. Hawke opened his eyes. Anders was lying on the ground, as he was before. Still. Cold. The little fire beside him could not cast any light on his form, any warmth. He was cold and dark, and so pale. Hawke touched his cheek. He touched his forehead. He felt around for a pulse.

A sob tore through him. Tears and snot mixed on his face as he sobbed, both hands holding onto his mouth to keep himself from screaming. Or perhaps he should scream. Attract them all here. Bring death with those dozens of footsteps, with hundreds of them, with thousands!

_Come home, Garret._ Hawke blinked back the tears. _If you survive, come home._

He remembered how strong Aveline was. Merrill and Isabela comforted each other with hugs and whispers. Fenris refused to look at them for a long time, his shoulders rising jerkily with quiet sobs.

Varric had no reservations. He had no shame. He sobbed and held onto Hawke for dear life in front of the Keep, not caring for the audience he had attracted.

_Come home._

_“Go home. You don't have to be here,” Anders said the first night. He stared at the fire. Hawke tried to lift his chin to make him look at him. But he refused and moved away. “Go. I won't be alone. I'll have Justice. And when I am gone, he'll be free. He'll come to you. He'll tell you. You won't have to wonder.”_

_“Now, what's the point of me going away if I'm going to worry about you, anyway? I might as well stay here.”_

_Anders sighed. “You are a fool.”_

_“I'm_ your _fool. You picked me.”_

_Anders smiled and scooted closer. Their arms wound around each other._

_“And I'd pick you every time, over everyone else. A hundred times. A thousand times. For all eternity.”_

He wiped his face with his sleeve, sobs still shaking him, jostling his broken rib, making it hard to breathe, making it hurt to breathe. He could already have it. Any of the Darkspawn could have infected him with the blight. But what if he was resistant? What if he could survive it?

_Come home._

He found their blankets. It felt wrong to wrap his face. It felt wrong to leave him looking like anything but a sleeping man, as anything but what he looked like when he was alive. He left the fire for him. He left him the change of clothes, the diary he brought, tucked into his arm. He left some of the water, right beside him. As if he was sleeping. As if Hawke was simply stepping out to grab some groceries, or some herbs. He'd be right back. And then they'd sleep together. They'd be so far apart, for so long, but in the end they'd be together.

He tore through the Darkspawn with his brother's sword. He ripped at them with his dagger. He summoned up just enough mana to roast five of them in a fiery explosion. The smoke chocked the air. It burned in his lungs. It felt exhilarating. It felt like living.

_Come home_.

_Go home._

His purple fingers, broken and swollen, red with blood at the tips; they dug in the rocks, dug through the tunnels. He saw a familiar sign post. The same path they took the first time, when they were just wandering, when they had no place to go but to their death.

His heavy footsteps, lopsided from pain and injuries, echoed in the great Dwarven halls. Light came from the lava moving slowly beside him, light that had been missing from these dark tunnels for too long. Deepstalkers rushed out of his way. His feet hit solid ground, not uneven rock. He gritted his teeth and tried not to look back. If he did, if he even glanced, he'd run back. He'd sit and wait for death to claim him.

If he could even find his way back. Panic seized his chest. He didn't want to die alone. But it was too late. He couldn't go back. And he couldn't stop. He pushed forward. He didn't know for how long he walked, how many Darkspawn he cut down in his way. Hours might have passed, or days. He had no way of knowing the passage of time.

Something in the air. Crisp and cool. Fresh air. He took a deep breath. A few more steps. He felt the chill of ice in the air. He stepped closer. White streaked on the old Dwarven floors. He raised his hand to protect his eyes from the glare. A ringing in his ears. His fingers were caressed by the cool air, soothing the purple bruises. He took his hand away and stared. There was ash. No. Snow. There was snow falling. He looked away from the sun. The empty, dark limbs of the nearby trees swayed in the wind; a surreal thing to see after so long in the dark. A figure sat hunched nearby, its black hair peppered with white.

The fight drained from him. The sword clattered to the ground. His fingers ached from holding it for so long. He fell on his knees, crying out when his busted kneecap connected with the ground. He came back.

Without Anders.

The pain constricted his chest. The blade by his side, covered in so much blood, beckoned to him, promising all the answers, all the remedies for his pain.

A hand covered his bruised fingers, pulled them away from the hilt of the sword. It brought them up and another hand covered it. Teeth clattered, his own or not, he didn't know. The hands gently squeezed over his freezing fingers, warming them with gentle movement.

There was nothing to say. There was nothing to do but let the figure pull him up. It took him a long moment to register it. He knew, instinctively, who the person by his side was. He would have known him anywhere and in any condition, had memorized every feature of his face from the moment he was placed in his arms by their mother as a baby. But it was so long before his fingers curled around Carver's shoulder, where they rested as his younger brother pulled him along. It was so long before his name passed through his lips.

“You came home,” Carver said softly in reply.

Hawke took a sharp breath and groaned in pain at the rib stabbing his side. He turned his head to the side, looked at his younger brother, at the eyes that were like his mother's eyes, at the face that was like his face.

“No, I left home behind.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Trickster_Angel and I were talking about our Hawkes and how widely different they were, and that got us talking about how our Hawke's stories ended. Well, I was about halfway through before I realized that my Hawke survived a lot of heartache and a lot of crazy, dangerous things, so he'd survive this, too. It was still really sad for me. The deep roads are so lonely and scary (Thanks, the Calling, for making them sadder) and the thought of him there alone, even for a moment, was so depressing. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Constructive criticism and all comments are welcome! Kudos are also greatly appreciated!


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